


click my heels

by finkpishnets



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7824193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon’s ninety-nine percent sure that this is the worst decision he’s ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	click my heels

**Author's Note:**

> A little something written as an unneeded pinch hit for the [shsummertimefest](http://shsummertimefest.tumblr.com/). One day I’ll probably extend this verse because now I just really want to write their whole story.

Simon’s ninety-nine percent sure that this is the worst decision he’s ever made.

It’s not the whole ‘revealing his secret feelings to a guy’ part that’s the problem — honestly, after the middle school serenade debacle where Jackson Rogers pushed him in the dirt, he’s covered any and all embarrassment quotas regarding his sexual awakening.

No, it’s more _who_ the guy is.

This is all Clary’s fault. If she hadn’t decided that this was the year she was going to ditch him for Jace Wayland and the freaking Survivalist Club, the Art Club that needed ten people to stay alive wouldn’t have been disbanded, and Simon wouldn’t have been scrambling for an extracurricular to add to his shockingly empty college applications. He wouldn’t have followed Camille Belcourt to the Newspaper room and ended up writing a three hundred word review on the spectacularly awful Drama Club performance of Hamlet, and then been left imprisoned for the rest of the year when Camille got expelled for selling weed to freshman behind the soccer bleachers.

Simon really didn’t expect to spend his senior year answering to a junior with a superiority complex.

He _really_ didn’t expect to _like_ him.

“Did you finish up the piece on Friday’s game?” Raphael asks without looking up from his desk. There’s a stack of folders with neat, block labels in alphabetical order to one side and a giant day planner full to bursting next to two computer screens and a laptop; sometimes Simon wonders if he realizes he’s a student at a second rate school and not the editor of the New York Times.

“Uh,” Simon says. “Yes?”

Raphael shoots him his patented unimpressed look.

“Okay,” Simon says, “no. Not yet. I’m getting to it, I swear.”

The thing is, Simon doesn’t hate Newspaper. Getting a byline is kind of cool, and, sure, Clary’s new little gang probably don’t even realize they _have_ a school paper, but there’s something like a seventy-five percent readership and that is definitely the kind of shit colleges approve of. Probably. He hopes so anyway. 

Also, you know, there’s the whole Raphael Santiago thing.

Simon hadn’t known his name before the beginning of the year, and then he’d hated him with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. Alright, not as much as he hated _Jace_ , but definitely enough to quote cliches his English teacher would have been proud of. Raphael was sarcastic and dry and intimidating and professional in a way no seventeen year old had a right to be, and Simon had wanted to hit him over the head with his stupid, leather notebook and run away screaming. 

But he hadn’t.

He _hadn’t_ , and now he was _here_ , stood around like an idiot waiting for Raphael to stop jotting down his plans to take over the universe or whatever, and wondering why it took him so long to realize that Raphael’s a good guy — kind of a great one, actually — and, oh yeah, that weird swooping sensation Simon kept putting down to the truly appalling cafeteria food? Yeah, that’d be a crush. A pretty epic one. 

So, okay, he’s an idiot. It’s not really Simon’s fault his dating history’s consisted of one two week relationship and the world’s most embarrassing game of spin-the-bottle.

It’s not like he knows what he’s doing.

It’s not like he _ever_ knows what he’s doing.

Raphael finishes his paragraph and sighs. “Did you want something?”

“Yes,” Simon says. “Kind of. I mean, not that there’s any pressure. It’s just, I’m supposed to be covering this Battle of the Bands catastrophe tomorrow night and there’s already talk of Ms. Gale censoring the songs and I heard a bunch of sophomores say they were gonna try and sneak in beer so you _know_ there’s going to be suspensions at the very least, and Janet Bellman and Derek Moore had a screaming break up in the quad yesterday and apparently she’s written a scathing song about it, and—”

“Lewis,” Raphael interrupts, “do you have a point?”

“Um,” Simon says, “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go with me?”

Raphael stares at him for a moment, and Simon keeps his eyes on a particularly gross patch of beige carpet and wonders if their relationship of cliches will extend to the ground opening up and swallowing him whole.

“Finish up the piece of Friday’s game,” Raphael says eventually, and, yeah, Simon should be familiar with this sinking rejection by now but somehow it still always catches him off guard.

“Right,” he says, choking out the words with the last of his dignity. “Yeah. Of course.”

“ _Simon_ ,” Raphael says, and Simon’s eyes dart up in surprise because Raphael doesn’t _use_ first names, not when surnames can add to the frankly dedicated old school pressman image he’s somehow managed to cultivate for himself without looking like a total idiot. “ _Finish up the piece on Friday’s game_. If you’re rushing to meet your deadline, we won’t be able to grab dinner afterwards.”

Simon blinks at him. “Wait, seriously? You _do_ know I’m asking you on a date, right? This isn’t going to be like one of those trashy teen movies where you leave at the end of the night to hook up with the super hot girlfriend I don’t know you have?”

“Oh for—” Raphael says, rolling his eyes. “Lewis, you have as much subtlety as a block of cement. Obviously it’s a date. I’m just surprised it took you this long to ask.”

“Oh,” Simon says, and, yeah, okay. He should probably be embarrassed about that, but, eh. All’s well that end’s well, and all that jazz. “Great!”

“Now _go_ ,” Raphael says, and Simon’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the fond smile dancing across his lips. “Some of us have work to do.”

“You really don’t get high school, do you?” Simon asks, and laughs when Raphael throws an eraser at his head.

“ _Go._ ”

“See you tomorrow!” Simon says, and runs before the eraser’s joined by the stapler Raphael’s reaching for.

So, yeah.

Not the worst decision in the world.


End file.
